


Lavender

by bloomblood



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Not A Fix-It, POV Peter Parker, Recreational Drug Use, Spider-Man Identity Reveal, Survivor Guilt, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 14:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomblood/pseuds/bloomblood
Summary: Peter escapes to a bathroom that he’s unaware is occupied and meets the mystery boy at Tony’s funeral.





	Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> The spoiler ban has lifted! If you’re still hungover from Endgame and are seeking something tender, here’s a pretty little bouquet.

The flowers cradling Tony Stark’s heart had hauled Peter’s across the water with it. He crashes into the first empty bathroom.

Nothing rolls up when his body attempts to squeeze the ache out of him. Ropes of spit dangle from his lips. His nose runs into the toilet, noiseless drops of grief consumed by the piss that’d been so rudely left unflushed. Peter sobs freely at this. Mr. Stark didn’t _leave_ for Mrs. Stark to open their home to those uncaring of showing such simple respect.

He folds an arm on the bowl, shoves himself up with it. It’s coming now. He gags, hacking up slaver.

Someone sniffs behind him, standing, Peter deduces from the pattern of tremors skating across the floor. Embarrassed that he didn’t properly check when he got in—embarrassed that he’s being seen like this—Peter curls into himself and the toilet.

“Hey, hey. Gotta be careful,” says some teary, southern voice. It comes with a hand that presses Peter firm between his shoulders, keeping him still so his face stays snug on his arm. Another hand smacks at Peter’s wrist to get it away from the bowl of urine Peter’s sure belongs to them. The toilet flushes. Peter absorbs its rumbling.

“Let me get this off,” the stranger then says. He’s young, Peter surmises, but as he’s too limp to fight, Peter allows the kid to take his jacket. “There. You would’ve thrown up by now so nothing’s gonna come out. You still wanna try?”

“I’m _sick_.”

“And I’m Harley. It’s okay to be sick in here.”

Peter blinks the water from his sight. He lifts himself up. He and Harley meet eyes.

“You knew him?”

Harley nods.

“How—how old are you?” Peter asks.

“Twenty-one. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, eighteen, I guess.”

“You were one of them? The Vanished?”

Harley’s searching him now. Peter turns away, the sick feeling building again inside him. Peripherally, he watches Harley settle against the warm, wooden counters and draw up his knees.

He pulls out an odd little cigarette. As smooth as his face is and as dark and swirly the hair, it fits. It looks like something this Harley dude would do.

“You probably shouldn’t….” Peter’s eyes are wary.

“It’s just lavender and roses.” He nods to the window. “Get that, just so it’s not too foggy.”

Peter does it. When he returns to the floor to sit with Harley, Harley fishes a lighter out of his pocket.

Peter studies the familiar way Harley handles his rolled-up flowers and flames and is glad for this distraction from Mr. Stark. Tears aren’t flowing as freely as they were at the toilet. He’s unsure, however, watching this as it happens. Smoking in the Stark house feels fucking dirty. Harley takes a draw and leans back his head.

“What’s your name?” Harley asks some time later.

“Peter.”

“Sweet.”

Peter feels his temperature kick up.

“How’d you know him?”

“He was”—Peter swallows, hating the past tense, how it works him up and gets him all upset—“my friend. He was my mentor, too, but I’d like—I’d really like to think we were friends and I never got to ask and now I can’t.”

“Oh, Peter.”

“And now I’ll never know.”

He’s crying again. Harley shuffles around as Peter hides his face in his knees, which are drawn up to his chest and kept in place by the tight embrace of his arms around his legs.

“Fuck, this is all adding up. Of course you were friends,” Harley says, closer to Peter’s head than he was before. “You’re the one in the picture. And hey, he doesn’t have a picture of _me_ in his kitchen after all this time, so it means something.”

Peter’s head pops up. “He does…?”

“It’s right near the sink. You and him, holding up some award.”

Peter doesn’t know if this breaks him or heals him. He watches as Harley turns his head to blow his smoke away from Peter’s face. It has an earthy, unfamiliar scent.

“So he looked at that picture every time he went in the kitchen, reminded everyday of how I left like that up there, feeling like it was his fault. Feeling like he had to do something—do what he did.”

“Oh, wow.” Harley rubs the backs of Peter’s shoulders, and Peter—through his sobs—can hear as smoke is being sipped up. “You’re really going through something, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t get to see him with his _daughter_. Or when he married _Ms. Potts_ , who’s _Mrs. Stark_. I missed _everything_ important to him. And he died out there and lost it all _for what_? Because me, I—I didn’t need him to do that.” Peter rolls his head against his knees. “I didn’t _ask_ him to do that, and he just left, burnt so bad. Because of a _picture_?”

“Aw, man. You’re gonna fuck me up going on like this.”

Peter struggles to swallow. To breathe. He hears as air tugs in Harley’s chest, snagged on heartbreak and smoke.

“Here. Try this.”

“I don’t….”

“C’mon, I’ll show you. Because you need it. Here, just take it like….” He passes Peter the packed, white paper and gets on his knees in front of him. “Pinch it here. Right, but not too hard. Okay, now put it between your lips. The end of it. Christ, Peter. Just—” Harley laughs, soft and a little wrecked. “Okay, now inhale. Right into your lungs, like you’re breathing.”

Peter gives it his best efforts. He blinks tears after and meets eyes with Harley. “Did I do it?”

“Not even close. And you’ve got the paper all spitty, that’s just...disrespectful.”

He stills. Harley drags his jacket sleeve across Peter’s lips.

“What’s that mean?” Peter asks as Harley’s hand draws back, a flash of _The Mechanic_ inked across the delicate skin of inner wrist. 

__

“What? Oh, this?” He shakes out his arm so his sleeve conceals the words. “It’s private. Okay, try again. Sorta wrap your lips around it and _pull_. Yeah. Yeah, like that, alright, stop.”

Peter coughs and burns and his throat must be bleeding.

“Yeah, you did it.”

“Was that right?”

“So right. You’re gonna feel it, too. Sit back, against the tub. Calm down for a second.”

Peter begins to mellow almost immediately. A sensation blossoms outward from the center of his chest where smoke had filled in, nascent, a dreamy pleasure, almost. Harley, who’s seated across from Peter looking a greater state of relaxed, lets his arm drape on one knee. His other leg is kicked out, stretching across the tile to rest beside Peter.

Not even five minutes later, Peter notices that his heart is kicking. He rubs his chest and shifts, concerned with how it jerks around in his ribs.

“Oh, no,” Peter says, staring into the distance. “I must be allergic.”

“To what?”

“The lavender and the rose, what we smoked.”

Harley fights but a laugh comes blurting out of him.

“I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Holy fuck. You’re one of those.”

“One of what?” Desperate, Peter grabs Harley’s leg. “I _am_ dying?”

“No. No one dies from this, you just need to sit back.”

“I don’t like this, Harley.”

“It’s gonna pass. Trust me. Just relax. You’re not gonna die you’re just...high.”

“From _flower petals_?”

Harley smirks. Smoke filters out from both his nostrils as he flicks the remains of the paper into the toilet.

“We smoked _pot_ in Mr. Stark’s house?”

“He’d be proud.”

“No, he’d be _pissed_ ,” Peter argues. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Look, you feel good now, don’t you? It’s fine. There was just a little pot in there with the flowers, and trust me, he’s happy we did this. You think he’d want you to be crying in here, all sick? And think about it, Tony was our ages once, and I’m sure you don’t believe he’s never tried.”

“But it’s a funeral,” Peter says with less conviction than before.

“We’re all gonna die. And when I die, I hope there’s some kids who looked up to me smoking at my funeral.”

Peter slacks and droops against the tub. They’re different. But then Harley’s older, has had time to grow into himself—to grow at all, these past five years. Peter fears saying any more in case he cries again and never, ever is able to make it stop.

*

“Everyone’s still outside,” Harley says. He’s looking out the window at the scattered bodies in black, his fists curled in the very deep pockets of his slacks like he’s important. And he’s tall. Probably stands three inches over Peter. Peter wonders then about the height he’s presently at, if missing five years has altered his body in such a way that he’ll remain frozen.

“We should get food while it’s safe,” Harley says. “We can hide back in here—”

“Someone might have to use the bathroom.”

“Well there’s all this land. Has to be somewhere we can go.”

Peter agrees. He’s just starting to feel drowsy and sweet. Bumping into anyone of Mr. Stark’s family will deliver him into a fresh state of turmoil.

Harley cracks the door. Peter bounces up on his toes, trying to see what Harley does through the space. When Harley reaches behind himself to grab Peter’s shirt, they go tumbling out of the room, tangled together.

“I saw crab balls,” Harley says. He’s walking fast to the food, like he’s never eaten before. It makes Peter laugh. “And don’t be slow as molasses. The _second_ someone sees us, they’re gonna know.”

Peter’s eyes blow wider than what can be possible. “Know what?”

“That we smoked.”

Peter walks a bit faster. He checks over both his shoulders and around all the entrances, making sure they’re not being watched.

“Here.” Harley offers a thick, plastic plate. It looks and feels too fancy to be disposable. “I don’t want any hot dogs or burgers but the buns are…. What’s wrong?”

Peter’s head rolls as he turns away. “It’s just—I can’t look at them.”

Harley’s face twists up. “The _bread_?”

“It’s the chee-cheeseburgers.”

Harley sighs. He drops his plate, rushing to Peter’s front. “C’mon, Peter, it’s okay, it’s just food.”

“He—he liked—”

“I know, I know.” Harley’s checking around for any guests. “It sucks that you’re so hurt. We’re just gonna eat and smoke some more and you’ll feel better, like this didn’t even happen.”

But Peter doesn’t care. He presses his forehead to Harley’s chest and wets up his shirt.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. I get it, I do. He was good.”

“The best,” Peter says through spit.

“I know.”

Harley hugs him. His arms and middle are long but surprisingly sturdy.

“Look,” Harley says a little later. “There’s the picture I told you about.”

They peel apart. Peter swipes at his nose with the back of his wrist and watches Harley procure the framed photograph.

“See? He loved you.”

Peter’s tears hit the glass. He swallows back a feathery little whine and swipes the water away with his thumb.

“Thank you.” Peter’s voice cracks. Harley doesn’t seem to mind, nor does he point it out.

The frame is returned to its shelf and they pile their plates with Stark-quality food. There’s everything, from deviled eggs to crab dip to steak. Peter makes sure to get some of each of them.

Several feet away from the back of the house, they find a wooden table under a tree. Harley gets right to it. Peter shoves his mouth full of the eggs.

Later, Harley shelters his plate with a napkin. He pulls a tin from his pocket and opens it up.

“Did you roll those yourself?” Peter asks.

“I did. It’s a long drive up and back.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tennessee.”

Harley lights the twisted end of the paper. Peter decides he’ll save his steak and the rest of the pile of his dip for after the fact. He mimics Harley, tucking a napkin around the rim of his plate. Another napkin houses toasted bread, which he puts on top of his food, preserved and safe from warm-weather bugs.

Harley gestures at Peter and points at the empty space on his side of the bench. Peter gets up to join him.

“Take it easy this time,” Harley says. “A short, smooth inhale’s all you need.”

Peter is offered the first pull. It feels like some sort of honor and his heart tingles a little. Harley watches him put his lips to the paper.

He drags in some smoke, just enough to make his chest feel slightly cooked, and he only coughs a bit, plumes curling out. When he exhales, a beam of grey air shoots from his mouth, surprising Peter as it begins to disperse.

“Fuck yeah,” Harley mutters.

“I liked it better that time.”

“You’re not gonna freak out like before. It’s gonna stretch out what’s already there, trust me, you need this.” He nods at the treat. “Hit it again. You do it _twice_ when you’re sharing, then pass it to the left.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He sucks in the smoke, then uses his left hand to return it Harley.

Harley laughs. “It doesn’t have to be—you know what, I’m gonna let you enjoy yourself.”

“I did it wrong?” Peter asks, pointing to his chest with innocent shock.

“No, no.” But Harley’s still laughing. “It’s just funny. You’re funny. Fuck, it feels good out here.”

Peter hums. He looks out at the water.

“Tell me how you met Tony. Every bit of it,” Harley requests.

Peter’s chest tugs with emotion. He watches Harley unpackage his food, eager to scoop up some cookies. He smokes and Peter’s mouth gapes when it’s his turn again, but he wants to keep up with Harley.

“I was a kid. At one of the Stark Expos, he saved my life,” Peter says. He distracts himself with two long puffs. Then, “But we met officially when I was a teenager. Because I’m...Spider-Man.”

And this makes Peter laugh. He laughs out breath and smoke and shakes his head.

“I’m gonna need that back,” Harley says, receiving the joint and staring at Peter severely. He sucks in much more than Peter believes he himself can handle, then lets it all float from his nose.

“Yeah, he...found out. He came to my apartment to recruit me, was on the couch with my aunt when I got home. Made up this _whole lie_ about some grant. And then we get to my room and he locks the door and I’m like, ‘What’s this rich guy doing here?’ and he’s like”—Peter stands up on the table; whips out his phone—“‘Quick question of the rhetorical variety.’—and there’s this _video_ of _me_ , in my homemade suit. _Fighting crime._ And he asks me, ‘That’s _you_ , right?’”

“No fucking way.”

“Right! And I’m like, ‘Um, no,’ and he’s like, _‘Yeah,’_ and I’m thinking, ‘ _Shit_! How does he know?’ And he has all these other videos and I’m _really_ trying to convince him that it’s not me, and then he _finds my suit_. So there was _no_ coming back from it.”

“Not at all. I mean, he found it, so what else was there to say?”

“ _Exactly_. So then, he’s looking all at my goggles and teasing me, but then he gets _real serious_ and asks me all these questions about my morality, wanting to know why I’m Spider-Man, what makes me do it.”

“So what did you say?” And Harley looks really into it. He’s even stopped smoking to take it all in.

“I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Oh my God, this is _Iron Man_. In my _room_. _Locked_ in here with _little me_!’ But I told him why, I…. And yeah, he…. Ever since then, we’ve had this….”

“You’re gonna cry again, aren’t you?”

Peter nods.

“Well let me make you laugh. Get back down here.”

Peter climbs back to his seat across from Harley. Harley lights up again and passes to Peter.

“I come home to my garage one day and this fucker is just sitting in there like he owns it. I shoot a potato at him—”

“A _potato_?”

“—and he gets up and moves and behind him is the Iron Man suit.”

Peter gasps. “How old were you?”

“Like 10. So yeah, the suit is right there, sitting on the couch. I’m touching it and everything and I break one of the fingers off, oh shit.” Harley laughs, gripping his middle. “And Tony’s a fool, so he goes, ‘You’re gonna break his finger? He’s in pain, he’s been injured. Leave him alone.’”

Peter laughs. He can imagine Mr. Stark saying that, since he treated all his creations as though they bled and breathed.

“Called me a pussy and everything. Demanding shit, all these _supplies_. He wanted a sandwich,” Harley continues. The way his drawling voice sounds tickled all of sudden, Peter _knows_. “He let me help him. Let me get _real_ involved in all his shit. I would talk him through his panic attacks, I mean, and I was just a kid, right? In fucking Rose Hill, but he let me do it. We were both fucked up. We were...connected.” Harley gets distant here, gazing out at the tree, just staring at it. He blinks. “And then he had to go, and life was fucking boring after that. But one day, after school, I walk into the garage and there’s all this new tech. A new _car_.”

Peter sniffs as Harley blows out a breath. Harley swipes at his eyes and tightens his jaw.

“So I get it,” Harley manages out. “He always kept in touch, put me through college, helped my mom. On my last birthday, I was allowed my trust fund from him, something I didn’t even know I had, so yeah. I haven’t seen him in person in a couple years, but I get it. It sucks.”

*

Harley’s leaving. They’re at his car, an antique now, and Harley is calling his own phone from Peter’s.

“Just call me, text me, whatever. Whenever you want, I don’t care.”

Peter nods, welcoming back his device. He’s sucking everything in for the sake of this moment.

“Thanks,” Harley says. “I don’t know anyone here but Mrs. Stark, and this was our first time meeting in person, so….”

Peter’s still nodding. Tears are hot on his face. He sniffles.

“I was just gonna leave after because I was by myself, but you…. Yeah, look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the pot. That was fucked up.”

“No,” Peter insists, “I had fun. I did, really, don’t apologize.”

“Good. Just wanted to help you stop hurting. I know what it’s like to love him. And hate him.”

They embrace. Harley is more repressed about his emotions, Peter’s learned, but he can’t mistake the wetness on his neck where Harley’s face is hidden against it. Peter watches him turn away, red eyes and all, and he gets in his car.

“What’re you gonna do now?” Peter sounds heartsore.

“I dunno,” Harley says. “Finally build that suit and put my own retro-reflective panels on it.” 

Peter thinks he doesn’t understand the meaning behind this, but it feels important. He waves as Harley leaves. 

“Who’s your new friend?” May asks a little later after the sun has set and guests are filing out.

Peter shifts where he stands in the grass, lips trembling. “Harley,” he finally says.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally saw the movie over the weekend, though I won’t get into it since I refuse to acknowledge it exists, but when I witnessed Harley standing back there all alone with no one to help him, my already shattered pieces sank in the river. I wanted to do something for him—and Peter—that didn’t demand that they hurt each other or hate each other or envy the love Tony had for each of them. I wanted the boys Tony adored to coalesce, because that’s what Tony would’ve liked and I’m crying _again._
> 
> Fuck canon.
> 
> Perhaps I’ll write a fix-it when I recover. Many fix-its.


End file.
